


Don Thy Armor

by thepizzasitter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Armor Kink, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Fluff and Smut, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), can i get a wahoo, listen this is basically just armor porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 03:17:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20959574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepizzasitter/pseuds/thepizzasitter
Summary: “Do demons have armor as well?” Aziraphale asked. “I suppose I haven’t had much cause to consider it, what with all our time spent trying to stop The War from happening, but surely they must have issued you something more than that to protect yourself against Heaven’s forces." [In which That StatueTM makes an appearance, the battle armor is brought out, and a demon finds out what a badass his angel is]





	Don Thy Armor

**Author's Note:**

> At first I was like okay time to write about Crowley getting cocky and thinking Aziraphale can't fight/getting his arse handed to him in a brawl. And then I was like, you fool, Crowley thinks the sun rises and sets on the angel of course he knows he can fight. And now here we are with whatever this is. Alternative title: Local angel is here to kick ass and indulge a demon's praise kink and he's already checked the first one off his list.
> 
> [Immigrant Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y8OtzJtp-EM) by Led Zepplin was where my brain went for the fight. [Angel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xiK2JlBpzvI) by Massive Attack was where it journeyed for the smut.

Sweat dripped sluggishly to fall from the tip of his nose, hovering just above the ground as he tested his limbs for anywhere he might have an advantage.

His armor was a heavy, familiar weight, despite not having needed it for over six thousand years. The only things preventing him from fulfilling his namesake and eating dust were the horns of his helmet. The spires were curved outward, protecting the cheekbones of his human corporation. In his truest form, they shielded far more than mere flesh and marrow, but here in the gardens of their South Downs cottage there was no need for that.

The sturdy weight of his angel over him was also familiar, though less so in this context.

He’d accidentally ruined Aziraphale’s favorite tie in his…enthusiasm the last time he’d been restrained in the bedroom. Nothing a quick miracle couldn’t fix, of course, but when Aziraphale had lamented nothing on the mortal plane being strong enough to hold Crowley _still_ when he was at his most impatient and uninhibited, well…

His whip had practically summoned itself.

It was, after all, a rather perfect solution. It had multiple uses that Crowley was very, _very_ eager to discuss in an intimate setting, and it was a weapon of Hell, so it couldn’t do any permanent damage to him.

Of course, after they’d given it a trial run—more like a trial marathon, given his angel’s ongoing commitment to driving him _absolutely out of his thrice-damned mind_, the cheeky bastard—Aziraphale’s insatiable curiosity had taken over.

“Do demons have armor as well?” He’d asked. “I suppose I haven’t had much cause to consider it, what with all our time spent trying to stop The War from happening, but surely they must have issued you something more than a whip to protect yourself against Heaven’s forces?”

Crowley hadn’t been able to answer right away, lost in the gentle sensations of Aziraphale’s hands on his wrists, massaging away the ache left by pulling with all his might against his own weapon as Aziraphale sank down on his cock over and over and over.

“Hng?” It was actually quite eloquent considering he’d essentially just been ridden to Heaven and back by the being he’d loved since Eden. They were still very new to this, and Crowley figured everyone could bugger off while he learned to get used to not having to hold back when his angel happened to look particularly delicious on any given day.

“Armor, my dear. Even Lucifer himself wouldn’t be so prideful as to face down the entirety of the Host without _something_ to protect him!”

“Yeah, ten million demons between him and the Almighty, I’d imagine,” he mumbled dutifully, before a dismayed sound dragged him back from where he’d been basking in the afterglow. “Er, that is. Yes, angel, I had armor. A spear, too. When I fell, my staff unraveled to become two pieces.” He lazily cast an arm out to bring it to him, the dark energy of it soothing and exciting in turn. It recognized an ethereal presence beside him, and he shivered as it imbued him with the stamina he would have needed to get back on his feet and keep fighting.

If, of course, his exhaustion had come from fighting and not holding on for dear life when Aziraphale cried out his name.

“Oh, it’s beautiful!” Crowley blinked, caught off guard.

There it was. That ability to take everything Crowley had thought he’d known and turn it on its head. The way Aziraphale could always surprise him with the depths of his compassion, deserved or not. There was nothing beautiful in the sharp, deadly edges of his spear. Nor the evil, twisted malevolence that roiled through it like the serpent that had been torn from its shaft. It was as infernal as he was.

And yet…

“Such a terrible, deadly weapon! The dark magics on this are very complex, and I can sense your own additions to fortify it. You must have spent a great deal of time working those extensions in. But it’s also…missing something? Ah, you did mention the whip. It feels incomplete somehow, like the two are meant to be used together,” Aziraphale said cheerily, admiring it as he picked up the snake-shaped hilt of the whip and laid it against the demon’s chest.

Something was caught in the back of Crowley’s throat. Something that still ached and yearned to be as close as he could possibly get to the incredible being before him, no matter how many times they did this. It begged to be released, to be given a voice, to be laid before the angel in all its ugly truth every minute of the day. A few months of bliss were drops in the ocean of his longing for Aziraphale, and the angel had asked him to be patient with himself. To not chastise himself when he needed something. To not turn away from the angel’s words of love and praise because he’d spent so long without them. _I have hurt you enough_, he’d said. _I’ve let you carry our love by yourself for so long. Let me take care of you for a change._

Sometimes, it spilled out of him, unwilling to stay hidden a moment longer, now that they were free to say such things. Going slow before had been difficult. Now it was impossible.

“I love you,” he whispered, and threw an arm over his eyes to rebel against the urge to cry.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale had murmured back, nudging his arm away to kiss him softly. His face was cradled carefully as he wept, and he let the staff clatter to the floor in favor of drawing his angel closer. “I do love you so.”

It wasn’t until the next morning that things had come to a head.

“Found it, angel!” Crowley held the vest aloft in triumph.

“Oh thank Heav—Somebody! Where was it?” His angel wiggled happily as he slipped it over his shoulders.

“On the statue,” he said with a smirk, slinking up behind the angel to do up the buttons himself. “It was draped over one of the demon’s wings.”

Aziraphale’s howl of laughter was infectious. There was nothing for it but to cackle and pull him in to show how much he enjoyed the sound of it.

By the time their fit had subsided, Aziraphale was glancing towards the statue with something wistful in his eyes.

“Sometimes I’m reminded of just how much we might have lost if things didn’t turn out as they did,” he said quietly, and held Crowley a little tighter. “If we had met on the battlefield before I ever had the chance to know you.”

“Ah, better not dwell too much, angel. That way lies madness, trust me. Besides, it wouldn’t have been all that bad. Probably would have taken one look at you in that silly getup Heaven pretends is armor and gotten stabbed by Gabriel while ogling your legs,” he snickered, dodging out of the way when Aziraphale made a scandalized noise and swiped at his arm.

“Tartan is stylish! And that kilt is armored to the gills, I’ll have you know,” he huffed. “In any case, that wouldn’t be what I’d have worn.”

“No? Shocking, angel, wouldn’t have thought you’d break regulation so easily.”

The baffled look he got was what actually surprised him.

“My dear, it would be a sight more scandalous if I wore the Principality uniform. I was demoted, yes, but mostly because there was a massive labor gap after the Rebellion. Dagon was one of the Principalities that Fell, as you know. I took their place when it came time to consolidate departments and everyone got shuffled about. In the end, however, ranks would revert, and I would have a very different uniform indeed.”

“Wh— really? Can I see it?”

_Famous last words from Anthony J. Crowley_, he thought giddily when he jabbed back quickly with an elbow and managed to scuttle out from under Aziraphale.

A Cherub.

A bloody, blessed _Cherub_.

He’d been tying off his bracers, awaiting his angel in the garden. A fun spar, they’d both agreed. Something to keep them sharp, if their Head Offices ever came calling again. He’d seen Aziaraphale approaching from the corner of his eye, and he’d turned with a smarmy grin and a witty comment on his tongue.

Only for a real shiver of fear to lick down his spine and ruffle his feathers at the sight of armor belonging to a choir far more powerful than he’d ever been a part of before his Fall. Aziraphale only had one set of wings out, but for a moment, Crowley could see the others, along with hundreds of burning eyes, and wheels upon wheels within wheels turning in all directions.

Fear was his first instinct, given his demonic nature. The second, given his appreciation of anything to do with Aziraphale, up to and including the air he breathed, was to miracle away every last stitch of armor and beg to be taken hard and fast right there, nevermind that his reputation with the plants would be instantly ruined.

“This blasted pauldron is the bane of my existence, I swear it!” Aziraphale was muttering under his breath, correcting the offending piece of armor with an automatically added, “pardon my language” directed towards the sky.

“Ngk,” had been his oh-so-smooth reply.

Now, his words had long since deserted him. He scrambled away as Aziraphale threw his entire body into a swing, his flaming broadsword far more intimidating than the sword War had wielded at the airbase.

His entire being rattled when he managed to block with his spear, shuddering under the force of impact where ethereal and occult materials met. He’d been a Healer during the Rebellion, thinking it was his duty to protect everyone, no matter whose side they were on. That was simply who he was, and he’d thought nothing of it.

It was the only time he hadn’t asked a clarifying question. It hurt less to blame it on the ones he did ask.

Still, his time with a weapon had been limited to after the Fall, when demons stopped speaking to each other in comfort and solidarity, and started to lash out instead. The first time he’d ever had to wield his whip and spear had been against Hastur. They’d actually gotten on fairly well in the early days, especially when Crowley had tended to an injured Ligur, using every trick of the trade he could remember from Before to save Ligur’s wings. The gratitude hadn’t lasted too long after, but the scars he bore from their fight had.

The second time was Lucifer himself, but that had been training. Beelzebub had seen how shaken he was from his fight with Hastur, and they’d been quick to remedy the issue with a memo to their Lord. Lucifer had pulled him aside and brought him up to speed. When it became clear that the Serpent’s talents lay in his wiles rather than his skill in combat, Beelzebub had given him their assignment to Earth. And when Crowley had been offered the position of Prince of Hell, he’d changed the name without hesitation and forwarded it to Beelzebub. Lucifer never called them out on it, and Beelzebub had turned a blind eye to most of his antics over the centuries. He counted it as a small mercy that Aziraphale had been the one at his trial. He didn’t think he could have borne the disappointment—or worse, apathy—on The Prince’s face.

The third had been the Guardian of the Western Gate of Eden. The less said about that, the better. He’d managed to win by the skin of his teeth and that had been against an actual Principality, not one of the Cherubim.

“Fuck,” he wheezed when Aziraphale knocked the spear from his hands and doused the flame from his own sword. Unlike his weapon, which could merely discorporate an angel, Aziraphale’s blade carried holy fire. It couldn’t destroy him the way holy water could, but it could permanently disfigure his true form.

The fact that Aziraphale was taking precautions meant that he thought he’d already won.

He swept his legs out, attempting to topple the angel, but it only served to unsteady him for a moment. He called his whip to him, darting up to send it cracking through the air. He struck the broadsword in rapid succession while the angel parried until he flicked it against Aziraphale’s hands, startling him into dropping the blade with a cry.

Summoning his spear again, the two hummed in resonance with each other, an affinity long broken, but not forgotten. He bared his teeth in a feral grin, sauntering forward to coax Aziraphale’s head back with the tip of the spear.

“Aw, angel,” he panted. “Thought you really had me there, for a minute!”

“As did I, my dear,” Aziraphale replied with a saucy wink, holding up his hands, which were already healing. “Oh, but look at _you_.” He eyed the demon with obvious appreciation, and Crowley squirmed a bit at the reverence in his voice. “I didn’t get a chance to say it before we began, but you look suitably terrifying in that beastly armor.”

“Flattery won’t work on me, angel. You can bat your lashes at me all you want, but you have no sword now. Do you yield?”

“Flattery always works on you, darling. And you’re forgetting that you have no sword either,” he said with a smile to outshine the sun.

Crowley frowned, a warning bell blaring in his mind. “I have a spear, what does that have to do with any—”

His world suddenly spun on its axis and toppled over.

His spear and whip were both wrenched away within seconds and banished to join the broadsword near the daisies Aziraphale liked to weave into his hair. “Much easier on the hands, you see,” came the merry voice above him. “And for the record, I yield to no one.”

His wings beat furiously for a moment, trying to throw the angel off, but Aziraphale merely held him tighter, patience incarnate as he let Crowley writhe in an exercise of futility. It might have been minutes or hours later for all he knew, but eventually he stilled, breathing shallowly and eyes staring down at the ground in shock.

He was waiting, ready to leap back up just as soon as—

“Crowley, my treasure, my love,” Aziraphale murmured in his ear. “It’s alright. You’re here, in your garden with me. There is nothing at stake here, nothing you need to prove, nothing that needs protection right now.”

He blinked, suddenly aware of his surroundings again.

“Oh,” he breathed, eyes closing for a moment in relief.

He slowly unlocked his muscles, one by one, and let himself lay out more fully onto his belly in the dirt. He hadn’t realized he’d been hurtling straight towards a panic attack, but the familiar smell of his home and the calming weight of the angel pinning him down was more than enough to drive the fear away.

“That’s it, darling. You were magnificent, holding your own like that. I rather thought you had me for a minute there,” Aziraphale parroted, and Crowley could practically taste the smugness in his tone. He grinned, twisting his neck just enough to stare lovingly at his angel.

“Y’know, I didn’t get to say it earlier, but you look like a particularly divine bastard in that armor you’ve got there.”

Aziraphale giggled with delight, shaking his head in mock reprimand. “I ought to say that flattery will get you nowhere, but what kind of angel would I be if I lied like that?”

“My _favorite_ kind.”

“Mm, wily old serpent. You know just what to say,” Aziraphale cooed, releasing his wrist in order to remove his helmet. Strong fingers combed through his hair, gently untangling the snarls that had formed. “Whatever shall I do with you?”

_Fuck_. He let out a trembling breath when the angel leaned down to nip at his ear.

“Anything, angel,” he whispered, staying still when Aziraphale eased off of him to slowly run his hands along his wings, righting any ruffled feathers that had been shifted out of place. “You won, I’m yours to do with as you wish.”

Aziraphale moaned softly and curled an arm under him to draw him close, settling him on his lap. He was sure the other could feel his heart racing despite the layers of armor between them. “Had I known we were playing for a prize, I’m afraid this would have been over much faster than it was.”

Crowley chuckled, leaning back against his angel’s shoulder, his nose skimming the softness of the other’s throat. “I think I ought to be offended at that dig to my fighting prowess, but how can I be mad when a bit of fucking is apparently enough to get you to start smiting all willy-nilly?”

The angel tsked at him. His hands were busy divesting Crowley of his bracers, kissing each finger as he went. The demon miracled away the rest, shivering just a bit at the touch of cool air. Aziraphale ran his tongue along his neck, his fingers reaching up to trace along his jaw delicately, “Such a mouth on you. You know I prefer the term ‘making love.’”

Crowley groaned dramatically. “Bless it all, angel, I’m already helplessly turned on, any more of that and I’m likely to discorporate.” He let himself be tipped forward onto his hands and knees, relishing in the feeling of Aziraphale’s armor against the bare skin of his back. His cock was already heavy between his legs, and he keened softly when Aziraphale wrapped a hand around him.

“Well, we certainly can’t have that.”

Bless it all, but his angel had been made for love and war alike. A finger skimmed along the underside of him, teasing until he made a loose fist and pushed Crowley to start moving. He chased the warmth of a palm along his length, head low between his shoulders and hair sticking to his face. The pace was slow, intense, and for once Crowley was in no mood for anything faster. He focused on breathing steadily—a habit that was as comforting to him as sleep—and made an encouraging sound of assent when his angel began to kiss and bite along the side of his neck.

The feeling of hot skin against his own sent a jolt through him when the angel banished his own armor. He sank down further, touched his forehead to the ground while Aziraphale worked his way down his spine with hands and tongue.

“You fought so well, my dearest,” he said between kisses. “And you truly do cut an impressive figure in that armor. But this…” He sighed softly and kneaded the sensitive place where wings met shoulders, making Crowley sob and push back against his touch. “I think I like it best when there’s nothing between us, when I can hold you like this and tell you how much I love you.”

He stroked though the dark feathers until the demon was trembling. “Please angel,” he whimpered, muffled against his arm, canting his hips back to try and entice Aziraphale closer.

“Here?” Aziraphale asked, looking out for a moment across the sun dappled field behind their cottage. So little space between here and Tadfield, where everything had almost ended, and instead he’d been blessed with everything he’d been afraid to want. He buried his face in the soft waves of Crowley’s hair, thanking whoever might be listening that he’d been allowed to have this.

“_Yesss_,” Crowley hissed, reaching behind him to pull Aziraphale closer. “Just like this. Need you in me, over me, however I can get you. Whatever you want, angel, please.”

“You have me, my dearest heart,” Aziraphale promised, and oh but he’d never tire of being able to say that without reservation. A quick miracle had Crowley wet and open for him, making the demon moan and press back against him. He cradled his beloved close, teasing the head of his cock into him, just enough to have Crowley pleading for more. “I intend to spend hours pleasuring you later. I want to open you on my tongue and keep you at the edge as long as you can stand it, and then just a little bit more. Would you like that, darling?” The way Crowley squirmed, that was a resounding ‘yes.’

“Or I could use my hands, stroke you until you couldn’t hold back any longer and let you come in my mouth. Oh! Perhaps you’d like to give me a sweet little cunt to feast on. I could spend absolute ages with you over me, dripping wet against my face. Hm, I love having you inside me, we could always have an encore of the other night. It led to this delightful endeavor, after all…”

“Go—Sa—Someone! _All of it_, angel, every last thing, I want all of it so long as it’s with you, _fuck_—" Crowley keened high in his throat as Aziraphale slid into him, fingers digging into the soft ground as he was filled.

“Fuck, _fuck_, that’s so good, Aziraphale, feelssss so good,” he babbled, unable to stop the words spilling from him when the angel held him down and brought his hips up to thrust into him hard. He could do nothing but take it, each movement laden with power that had the Serpent twisting low in submission. He wanted everything. Wanted to be conquered, to be bested and claimed and pushed into the ground where he might be used for Aziraphale’s pleasure.

“That’s it, sweetheart, you’re taking me so well. My fierce, beautiful demon, so clever and strong and _good_.” He soaked up the praise like his garden did the rain, begging for more as he found himself flipped onto his back, hair splayed out against the grass and vision filled with his angel over him, looking at him like he was everything he could ever want for eternity. He pulled the other down into a desperate kiss, gasping into his mouth every time his nerves were set alight.

“Harder—oh fuck, _please_, just—_ah_!” He pushed his hands into the soft down of Aziraphale’s wings, legs in a vice grip around the angel’s hips.

“Come for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale commanded, and he obeyed, careening over the edge and clinging to his angel as he spilled between them.

Aziraphale held them tightly together, murmuring praise against Crowley’s throat, managing only a few more thrusts before he shuddered and came hard enough to blow out the power all the way to Tadfield.

A certain Witchfinder residing in Jasmine Cottage immediately caught the eyes of his beloved Witch and swore it wasn’t him this time.

In a garden that was most certainly not Eden, but was just as precious to its creators, an angel stroked back a stray hair from his demon’s face and kissed him as softly as he dared. “I love you,” he murmured against his lips. He started to move away, only for Crowley to reel him back in.

“Stay in me a while longer,” he sighed, unwilling to give up even a moment of closeness.

“Of course, dear boy. However long you like. And then we’ll go back in, have some cocoa and some of that wine you picked up the other day, and I’ll take you to bed so I can make good on my promise from earlier. Really ought to have done that this time, but I’m afraid you are far too irresistible,” he said, bringing his wings up to shelter the demon under them. Crowley would forever deny that his corporation’s heart beat in triple time at the sight.

“M’like catnip. But for Cherubs, not cats. Cherubnip. Or something. Still can’t wrap my brain around that one, angel. You’ve been holding out on me for six thousand years! You never thought that might be, I dunno, relevant information?”

“I suppose that by the time we began to share things with each other, I was rather hoping there would never be a need for that armor in the first place. I wanted peace long before I could admit it out loud,” he mused thoughtfully, stroking Crowley’s cheek. “And the moment I realized I had fallen in love with you, there was no difference anyways. Cherub, Principality…I could have been a Seraphim and it wouldn’t have changed a thing. I would sooner fall on my own sword than raise it against you.”

“Fuck, angel,” Crowley whimpered, drawing Aziraphale down to lay against his chest. They stayed like that until the sun set, trading kisses and snippets of the past until the stars emerged.

“Come now, let’s go inside before you get too cold.”

They made their way to the cottage, tracing reverent hands over wings and naked skin as they went, looking out across the moon-soaked home they had built here with each other. It was, they thought, rather good indeed.


End file.
